Page 16 of Scorpion

Storming to the bedroom, I whip open the wardrobe doors and—

Oh. Oh God.

Slowly, I reach for the blue jersey hanging on the rack. I run my fingers over the embroidery. Tears sting my eyes as the memory pushes up my throat to choke me. Gaya, Amy, Mathijs and I all have the same matching jersey from the time we snuck away to visit the Rocky Mountains together.

I never thought I’d see it again.

Placing it back on the rack, I grab the Ferrari leather jacket that Mathijs brought back for me after his trip to Monaco. Then the next item—my homecoming dress. Then a hoodie Gaya and I tried to bleach dye. Then the blouse I bought with Gaya during a family trip to Paris.

One right after another, memories slam into me as I sift through each article of clothing.

I never thought I’d see any of them again. Gaya told me that within a week of moving out, Mom got a maid to put all of my things into boxes to donate.

While I moved on with my life, he lived in the house owned by his dead parents, running his father’s business, and holding on to my clothes. Ten years after I left him and everything I owned behind, they’re back.

I squeeze my eyes shut, relishing in the ache. A sharp pain radiates through my foot, and I stagger back onto the bed. The softness of the duvet momentarily snaps me out of my misery. I forgot what expensive bedding feels like. From riches to rags and back to riches. It’s not the circle of life I envisioned for myself.

I finish putting my meager belongings away, then meet with Sergei, the head of security, for a brief rundown of the compound. Once I’m back at the pool house, I slump down on the couch in front of the TV, holding a bag of frozen vegetables to my eyes.

Time ticks by, and the sun sets, changing the sky from orange to indigo. Despite the ache in my empty stomach, I can’t bring myself to get up from the couch other than to refill my drink. Beyond a couple packets of ramen, the only food here belongs to Mathijs—and I won’t accept his handouts.

I’ve done nothing to earn any of this. I shouldn’t have agreed to move in early. I could’ve lasted two weeks in a tent until I started working somewhere.

Pushing myself onto my feet, I hesitate before deciding to track Sergei down. I’ll ask him to pass a message to Mathijs: Thank you, but I’ll be on my way. See you in two weeks.

Just as I reach for my shoes, a knock rattles the front door, jolting me into motion. Instinctively, I reach for the gun in the top drawer next to the door. Only when I flick off the safety and hold the weapon behind the door, out of sight, do I become mindful of my actions.

My heart stutters as I blink, transported away from a place where I could be attacked at any second.

What the fuck am I doing? There’s no threat.

The silent alarms would be going off if there’s anything wrong. Who the hell do I think is coming for me? The other security guards? The fucking maid? Jesus Christ, I need to get my shit together.

Tucking the gun into the waistband of my workout tights, I right my hoodie to cover the bulge. I look through the peephole then turn the handle, inching the door just wide enough for me to stick my head through.

Speak of the devil.

My chest aches at the sight of him. I’ve seen Mathijs in a suit countless times, but it’s nothing compared to seeing him in one when he fills out the expensive fabric that shapes to his muscles. His platinum hair is impeccably styled, and there isn’t a single speck of dust on his jacket.

“Good evening, Lieverd.”

He can’t call me darling anymore.

“They said you’d be gone for the next week,” I say.

Sergei was the perfect intermediary because Mathijs wouldn’t have been there to convince me to stay. Now he’s here to weaken my resolve.

His lips quirk to the side, showing me a hint of the boy I used to know. “Isn’t it dangerous to have a set schedule?”

I narrow my eyes. “Is this a test?”

“No, but I can get someone to make you one.” Paying no mind to my personal space, he forces me to back up as he leans against the doorframe and tucks his hands into the pockets of his slacks. The pose is casual, but it only makes me painfully aware of how much of a man he’s become. “I remember how much you loved subtly dropping your good grades into conversation.”

“People change.” I bite the inside of my cheek, unsure how to navigate having a conversation, let alone how to process the spark of familiarity he brings.

“They do,” he sighs. “But I fear there are certain areas of my personality that continue to pose as a plague to the people around me. There’s no cure for it.”

“Let me guess. You’re still an obnoxious winner and a sore loser.” I can't help but feel like I'm back in high school, hanging out with Mathijs when my biggest worries were my SATs and my overbearing parents.

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